Bloodlust: Monsters, Hunters and Killers
by voxinatwitch
Summary: Dexter is thrust into the unfamiliar territory of the Winchesters, where he finds the lines between reality and fantasy, and monster, hunter and killer blur.
1. Chapter 1

He was crossing the main yard of the logging camp from his cabin, getting ready to hit the road, when it struck. The last thing he saw was the streak of blue-white light coursing down from the tumultuous sky, he could hear it sizzling past snowflakes, and then the indescribable sense of buzzing, vibration hit as the energy raced down his spine and through his body. Searing red had streaked his vision, and everything had gone black.

Cold, the next thing he felt was cold. Stinging, biting his ears, stealing the sensation of his skin, seeping its numbness into his face, tingling in his limbs, burning through his extremities as he struggled to move them. His eyes tore open, and his lips, raw with cold and speckled in frost, cracked open, the stiffness of his jaw grinding as he did so. Light blinded him; sun, sunlight. He saw the evanescent puffs of his own breath condensing into smoke-like bursts as he rasped for air. It too burned going in, frigid in his nostrils, searing his airways, stinging his lungs. It was daylight.

Daylight? I've been out here through the night?

But how? I should be dead, he thought, his neck cracking as he heaved to lift his head. His bones felt frozen through, as if the joints themselves had frozen solid.

He glanced about the clearing of the camp yard. Something's wrong, he realized. None of the guys' cars were there. Only that broken-down pickup—he gazed over at it, noticing the splotches of rust between patches of snow that had fallen from its sides, its oxidized surface red like blood against the sterile white of snow.

Blood.

The need washed over him again.

…..

He was sitting in the driver's seat of an old black minivan, engine off. The seats were a cold black leather, the chill seeping out of them into his skin through his jeans.

He'd come down from the frigid mountains where the camp was in that pickup, with his few belongings, his laptop, his kit, a few changes of clothes, and his savings in cash, in the passenger's seat. It had taken excruciating hours of trying to get the truck to start, and even longer to reach civilization. He'd taken a room at a hotel in town, and layer low for a few days, the urge slowly building. It was overwhelming at times, but he tamped it down over and over… He couldn't possibly go for a kill anyway, in his condition. Recently struck by lightning? No, he needed a few days. So he'd taken them. And even then, he had to find a proper target, which was what he was up to now.

He was parked in a back alley in one of the seediest areas of the town. He'd heard on the news at the motel he'd stayed in that disappearances were happening increasingly in this area. Why not go and stake it out, he had thought. Tonight would be just fine to find a worthy target…

The crash of a a trashcan lid pierced the silence, snapping him out of his daze. In the flickering shadows, he made out the figure of a scantly-clad girl of roughly twenty stumbling between tall metal trash bins, a look of panic on her face. She was running, from what, he couldn't tell. He sprung into action, cranking the car, gunning the engine, so that he intercepted her path farther up the alley where she was floundering through the spilled detritus.

She paused for a moment of indecision beside the van as stopped.

Dexter threw open the door, calling out "Hey, come here!"

A look of horror crossed her face, and she started to run again, her gait lopsided and wobbly, he realized, because she was missing one of her high heels.

He jumped from his seat, catching up to her in a few strides, and grabbed her by the upper arm.

She jerked the other way, trying to claw his face with her free hand.

He caught the wrist, bringing it in towards her body, turning her as he did so that he was between her and whatever she had been running from.

"Hey, it's OK. What's going on?" He said, releasing his grip on her.

"You've got to help me, th-they're coming," she sobbed, tears trickling from her eyes, mixing with dirt and blood that was smeared with the running makeup she wore.

"OK, just get in the van." he replied, taking her hand to hurry her to it.

She panicked again, snatching her arm from him.

"How-how do I know you're not with him?"

"You'll just have to take that chance," he replied, shoving her toward the van as he yanked the back door open.

She scrambled in, still shaking with terror. He slammed the door shut after her, locking the van with the beeper as he took off up the alley toward the row of trashcans she'd stumbled through.

He heard a male voice shout, "Hey, come back here!" as running footsteps pounded up the alleyway. He reached in his pocket for the needle of sedative he carried, a dark satisfaction creeping through his mind.

He'd found his target.

Clanking on the roof of the building beside him drew his attention. Wait, someone's up there, he thought.

He heard a grunt, and looked up just in time to see a figure fling itself off the roof directly overhead—

The dark shape coursed downwards, air hissing between its limbs, as he tried to sidestep. Too late, he realized, when the jolt of its feet crashing against his chest wracked him, sending him sprawling, his head smacking against the pavement. His ribs were on fire, and it was hard to breathe past the enormous pressure on his chest. The figure, he saw, scrambled to its feet, and approached him, hissing. It crouched over him, lunging for his neck. He felt something puncture his skin, a vague pain as the world slipped away. A gunshot whispered into his ears just as everything faded away to the silent depths of unconsciousness.

As he came to, he felt the shuddering of deceleration on gravel, and the growl of an engine dying. He groped around himself in darkness, his fingers smashing against cold metal overhead, grating over rough carpet underneath.

I'm in the trunk of a car, he thought, his mind exploding in a pulsing, wordless rage to match the heavy throb of his head.

He took in a deep breath that expanded his chest, screaming silently as it sent a cage-like swath of pain coursing through his chest wall.

Shit, he thought. I've probably cracked some ribs….

He remembered the impact of feet on his chest. The hissing figure approaching, the gunshot.

He felt in his pocket for his needles, his phone. They were gone.

What the hell is going on? He wondered, as he heard the doors of the car slam shut, and the footfalls of multiple people walking from it, the rasp of something heavy being dragged across gravel. Heavy…..like a body?

A door creaked open and slammed shut some distance away, and he was alone again in quiet.

He felt around with his feet until he found the taillight, and struggled to roll over, which sent a wave of pain over him that stole his breath. A wordless groan escaped his lips as he tensed. He waited a few moments for the agony to fade, bending his knees and flexing his hips as far as he could so that he was ready to kick backwards against the taillight.

As the squeak of a door opening met his ears, he froze, waiting to see what was going to happen.

Shit. They're coming back, he thought. But if I fake being out, I could surprise them…

He instinctively tensed to fight as the crunch of footsteps on gravel drew near. He shut his eyes, ready to play dead, as he heard click and squeak of a key in the lock of the trunk.

Sunlight poured in, covering the backs of his eyelids in streaks of brownish-gold. He carefully cracked an eye, only enough so he could see in shadows, but shut enough, he hoped, so it didn't look open. He saw an enormous figure standing over him, reaching down to him. They're gonna get me out, he realized. This is my chance.

He forced himself to relax his body. Then the giant stuck a hand under his body, as if to pick him up. A low groan escaped his lips as he tensed with a spasm of pain.

Shit. Shit, shit, he thought, realizing his cover was blown.


	2. Monsters, Hunters And Killers Chapter 2

"You're waking up," the man muttered, withdrawing his hand. "Look, I'm not here to hurt you," he continued awkwardly, taking a step back.

Dexter opened his eyes, blinking slowly, feigning being dazed. He moaned again. The sunlight blazing into his retinas felt like it was searing his brain. Oh, I'd be worried for you, he thought, grim with irony.

"Hey," the guy standing over him said softly.

"Wh-who the hell are you?" Dexter replied slowly, his voice rasping in his throat, each word sending pain stabbing throughout his chest wall.

"Sam. And you are?"

Why the hell is he telling me his name, he wondered absently between the pounding of his head and the blinding light searing his eyes.

"Why would you care?" So much for having to pretend to be out of it, he thought. I sound like shit.

"Suit yourself. Look, really, sorry about the whole trunk deal. We had a, uh, issue, that took up the back seat," Sam said, his eyebrows knitting themselves into an apologetic expression.

"Do I even want to know?" Dexter replied hoarsely.

"Probably not. But, point is, I'm not here to hurt you. I can't really explain it right now, but somebody hurt you, and we have to make sure you're OK before we let you go."

"What's that supposed to mean?" This is a weird ass kidnapping, he thought. "Make sure if I'm OK?"

"Let's just get you inside," Sam replied, extending a hand toward him. "And, please, don't try to run. It's easier on both of us if you don't."

Dexter took the hand up, groaning despite his effort not to, as he heaved himself into a sitting position. Try to run? He didn't think he could if he had to at the moment.

The world started to spin as he scrambled out over the edge of the trunk, pain stealing his breath from inside him. He stumbled as his vision fuzzed out to gray, stayed hands catching him by the shoulder, easing him back to lean on the side of the car.

"Whoa there, you really took a nasty fall," Dexter heard him say, the words muffled, as if heard through water, "the way he jumped on you."

Struggling to find the words as his brain began to come back from the mushy gray of standing too fast, Dexter muttered, "Wha-who was it that jumped on me?"

"Don't know his name. We've got him though. Nasty son of a bitch."

"What do you mean, you've _got_ him?" Feeling stable enough to stand on his own, he made a shooing motion with his hand to get the guy to lay off.

"Doesn't really matter. But it's OK, we specialize in taking care of this kind of thing, me and my brother," Sam replied.

"If you say so," Dexter replied, putting a hand to his forehead as if rubbing it would stop the pounding.

_Taking care of_, he thought, his mind lurching from hearing the familiar euphemism. In this context, it surely meant only one thing….

He was dealing with _specialists_ something like himself.

"You ready to try to walk," Sam asked.

"Sure," Dexter grunted, grimacing as he righted himself from where he'd been slumping against the car.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered breathlessly, taking a couple shuffling steps, nearly stumbling as he did so.

Sam grabbed his arm.

Dexter shirked as he did so, but reluctantly succumbed himself to Sam's grasp as he struggled to walk, the world spinning with each step he took.

Sam slowly lead him to the door of a beaten up cinderblock building.

By the time they were inside, Dexter felt ready to pass out again.

Sam dragged an old chair from a corner over to Dexter, who was leaning against the wall beside the door, panting.

He sat in it immediately, groaning and nauseous from the bizarre vertigo the exertion of crossing the yard had brought on.

"Just stay here, rest, you lost a lot of blood," Sam told him, his voice filtering into Dexter's perception through the fog of exhaustion as he moved to get something from a shelf nearby.

He came back to Dexter, something metallic clinking in his hands.

Handcuffs, Dexter realized, a little too late, as he felt Sam snap one end around his wrist.

With what felt a monumental effort, he clumsily jerked his arm away, only to feel the bruising force against his own wrist as the cuffs yanked taut, Sam having already fastened the other end to a metal ring bolted to the wall behind him.

"Shit,"he sputtered.

"Sorry, it's just a precaution," Sam told him, now crossing the room toward a refrigerator. He pulled out a bottle of orange liquid, Dexter observed as he struggled to keep his eyes open. He came back to Dexter, pressing the bottle, a sports drink, into his free hand.

"Drink this slowly," he said. "I'll be back."

Sam opened and went through a door in the opposite wall of the room, descending creaking wooden steps into a room below.

Too exhausted to do much else, Dexter looked at the drink in his hand.

I saw his face, he thought. There's no way they're letting me go. It's probably spiked.

With that realization, he dropped the bottle, letting it roll slowly across the room.

There's nothing I can do right now, he decided. I need to rest…..


End file.
